


on the shores of determinism, the existentialist lies

by ghoulhunt



Category: Death Note, Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Existentialism, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Literary References & Allusions, Nihilism, References to Macbeth, Religious Discussion, Suicide, b just needs to take a fucking sip babe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9338528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulhunt/pseuds/ghoulhunt
Summary: He finds it hard to ponder-why and what, in this situation, are so closely associated with one another that it’s hard to differentiate the two.Why is life; what is life.He doesn’t know the answer to either of them, and it’s frustrating beyond belief.





	

**Author's Note:**

> not going to lie, i've had this written for quite some time now but haven't had the courage to post it. this is the longest thing i've written for a one-shot, and i'm honestly kind of proud of it, considering that at one point this was just a careless project. it took a long while to edit it, and it will probably continue to go through countless more-the curse of a perfectionist. for now though i'm really happy with it!  
> i want to thank @apocolypticprince on tumblr for helping to beta this around november, and countless more people for helping to read through it and discuss it.  
> edited: 2/1/17, 6/27/17

_"Man’s very insides– his self– are foreign to him. He doesn’t know who he is, why he was born, what he is doing on the planet, what he is supposed to do, what he can expect. His own existence is incomprehensible to him, a miracle just like the rest of creation, closer to him, right near his pounding heart, but for that reason all the more strange._

_What would the average man do with a full consciousness of absurdity? He has fashioned his character for the precise purpose of putting it between himself and the facts of life; it is his special tour-de-force that allows him to ignore incongruities, to nourish himself on impossibilities, to thrive on blindness."_

**\- Ernest Becker,**   ** _The Denial of Death_**

# ♰

i.

Time doesn’t exist.

For Beyond Birthday, time has never existed. He’s established in his mind that time is simply a construct that rules everyone else’s lives to keep people planted to this earth with a sense of reality. It’s a fact, really. Time is a theoretical formula, which has allowed people to function as though their life is an equation based on the matter of time and all that it brings. Time is a simple thing that tells a human when to sleep, when to wake, when to go to work. When to eat. When their doctor’s appointment is. When their next meeting is, or when they next have a test.

He’s never understood why he needs to obey this rule. There’s nothing in the universe that says he can’t stay awake during the ‘night,’ or sleep during the ‘day,’ other than the melatonin that rids his body of any energy; despite this, he continues to stay awake until he passes out into the next sunrise. He’s come to figure out that humans do it simply because it’s convenient. The sun that comes during the ‘day’ that warms the body and floods the planet with energy, filling the plants that he sees erupt from the ground and making them lush and healthy, depositing the oxygen filled air with its dangerous, burning rays.

Time is a simple concept that has taken over everyone’s lives. It’s a creation of man, to tell what the present is.

This, however, has always confused Beyond, for at this time, _now,_ he is outside laying across the small bench in the courtyard, watching the younger children run around and play. He lies there soaking up the warmth, radiating from the storing heat in his black button up shirt. He _should_ be inside taking a test, using all his obscure knowledge to better his competition, so he can, eventually, be a part of-if not greater than-the greatest detective in the world. It’s something that he wants, something that he knows he can achieve.

He will do it. In the future, he will do it, because his confidence, hubris, is too large, too _sure_ that he will one day be able to rise to the top; above A, above L, above all the people who claim to be the smartest, and it’s _this_ that is his present situation.

The future, however, doesn’t exist either, as a part of time. Nobody can predict what can exactly come. At any moment, Beyond could witness one of them trip and fall, and scrape his knee against one of the stone steps. Or, perhaps, he could stand whenever he pleases, and he could trip over his own feet. The future, for the most part, is unpredictable.

The future, he knows, can be altered. People’s interpretations can be altered, so they think differently in the future. Anything can be changed, as it often is, so that something _won’t_ happen; such as him stacking pebbles against the arm of the bench. They will fall over, after placing about twelve high. They’re leaning towards him, so he starts to shift the mass of the rocks away from him, so that, when they _do_ fall, as planned, they will fall onto the ground.

And sure enough, with the small plop of stone against stone, the pile topples over and onto the solid dirt ground, bouncing carelessly by the weight of gravity.

Beyond sighs and looks over to one of the doors. The future annoys him. The future makes this feeling of dread, a feeling of unknowingness ring through his body. Time constitutes when things will happen. Time is only real because people made it to be.

So why is it, then, when he looks above the heads of his peers, those numbers can be calculated to a specific date-a specific _time_ in the future?

He doesn’t know, and he can only assume that this…this oddity is another form of time. That this math he’s able to do mentally, to calculate what he knows can only be _death_ , is in its own, unique form that can be translated less elegantly into human time. The time scares him. The dates make him pity the children who have smaller numbers.

He sees A beginning to approach the door that leads out into the courtyard where Beyond is. He looks thoroughly disgruntled, and almost mad, but at this point in time it’s almost normal for him to always look like that. With his mousy brown hair, and piercing aqua-colored eyes, and that stupid grey sweater he wears all the time. His books tucked neatly under his armpit, and his eye bags prominent against his pale skin.

Typical.

“B, where the hell were you?” A shouts, obviously annoyed at the fact that B wasn’t there.

B shrugs. “Where does it look like?”

A rolls his eyes. “You know you missed your test. You’re going to fail.”

“No I’m not,” Beyond replies. “I rescheduled it.”

_Do you really think I would let myself fail?_

“We were supposed to take it at the same time, you know.” A grumbles.

“And?”

A sighs. “I-Nothing.”

“I was only taking a break.”

“Taking a break during a test time isn’t really, well...the time to. They’re trying to prepare us.”

“It’s not guaranteed, is it?” B sits up from his lounging position. “It wouldn’t matter if you were A, you could still place below me. They’re just supplying us knowledge that only _might_ be useful. You know that, right?”

A is quiet for a few moments, taking in Beyond’s words.

“I suppose you’re right.” A mutters. His eyes have found something new to focus on.

With all this heavy priming and training and stress, it’s hard to believe that they’ll ever get there. There isn’t a need for some of this curriculum. The job shouldn’t have to name them as backups. B imagines this is what A thinks.

“It’s not like we have a choice though.”

A nods in agreement. “I just…hate waiting.”

“So do I.” _It’s not just you._

“It’s been years, you know?”

“It’s not _entirely_ useless.” B ponders aloud, mostly to himself.

“I don’t know about that.” There’s a pause. “I can barely keep up with the workload, and we’re expected to handle ten times the amount we already have. I don’t think I can do it-”

“If L didn’t think you-we-were capable, we wouldn’t be the only two for the position. We’re the most intelligent ones here, A, don’t you dare say that you aren’t good.” B says, his voice gradually growing louder.

A lets out an exasperated noise. “Easy for you to say that. You don’t have to work for your grades.”

There’s a slow tension starting to build between them. B doesn’t bother to say anything to that. He’s learned that it’s better to just leave A alone when he’s on one of these rants. It’s one of those days, B has decided.

He figures they shouldn’t have “those days.”

“You’re stressed.” B says.

“You think?”

 _I know._ “Let it be.”

“How can you say that?” A looks quite bewildered.

“Worrying about the matter won’t change L’s mind any sooner. And you being stressed isn’t helping anyone.” He says, mostly in reference to himself. “Only time will tell, I guess.”

_Only time will tell._

A picks at the skin of his lip. “I guess.”

“Do you need a break?”

He nods. B pats the empty seat next to him, and A sits on the bench, looking down at the remainders of the pebble tower.

_But time doesn’t exist._

ii.

Beyond has always been confused by religion.

Religion has always played an important role in humanity. It was originally used to explain what could not be explained. It was used to give humanity hope, especially in where they would go after death.

But this world has science now. Beyond can see how a body decomposes into nothing but bone, and knows how saprophytic organisms break down every little organic material until the body is nothing. He knows that this body was once a human, but is no longer living. The body cannot thrive. There is no visible spirit, _Ka_ , soul, or whatever else you want to call it that can be seen.

Of course, he can see death. He saw it the moment his mother jumped in front of a train, watched her numbers change in the time his father died in the days his own numbers indicated his death. He can see when it will happen, predetermined, passing the laws of time not existing. He can see a person’s time-when the body will finally fall to the ground, becoming nothing but dead organic waste.

He just doesn’t know what happens after a person dies, and it’s something that has always plagued his mind. Is there a god? Is there a Heaven or a Hell?

Is there even an afterlife at all?

He supposes that the reason humans cling to useless beliefs is to comfort themselves. He thinks others may find it unsettling, the way a human can just disappear, because even though a person may live on by a legacy, or a name, there is nothing left for them to accomplish. Eventually even that’ll fade away. He guesses it must be hard to realize that, or people straight out deny it. Then again, who is he to judge the little blonde boy that grasps at his rosary like a stuffed animal when even _he_ doesn’t know what’s after this.

He’s thought about the possibility of there being a force that controls humans. He knows that the universe, the Earth, and all its systems are balanced in equilibrium, between the physical status of _existing_ and an unseen force that somehow manages to _control._ It controls how people do things, how people see things, and judges whether a person should die, if a person is bad or good, or, simply, _when._

When will this couple get pregnant? When will the child start to grow up and mature?  When will new data be discovered? When will death occur?

Another unpredictable thing, and not one that B has figured out. Death happens every day, at unknown times, and it seems that humanity has increased the chances of killing off their own species by accidents and a conscience and dangerous machinery and _feelings_. None of this is natural, really, for machines are built, energy utilized; the only natural part of the process is the release of chemicals in the brain. He supposes that these occurrences _must_ be natural if he knows that that’s when a person dies, though-if not natural, coincidental, but why so?

The scene unfolds in his head as his eyes scan across the paper. A person-a woman-goes to work late that day. She reaches for her coffee as she is driving. It spills. In a quick effort to look for napkins, she takes her eyes off the road, starts going across an intersection without looking and oh, here comes a tractor trailer, well it looks like two people are dead because of this now and many more witnesses to the tragedy.

The universe is a mysterious thing. Because something made that woman look away from the road for just a few seconds. Hell, she didn’t even have to pick up the coffee. The gruesome accident that B is reading about in the newspaper could have so easily been avoided if the she had just paid a little bit more attention. Hadn’t looked away. B sees things like this in the news all the time. Robbers break in to houses and become murderers, accidents happen and the person whose fault it wasn’t becomes the blame, because they survived. But why does it have to be these specific people? B hates thinking of these things like fate, and destiny, because really, what good comes out of dying at the hands of another?

Nonetheless, the only word he can think of to describe these situations is fate. These people are _fated_ to die. B has seen the numbers change before, drastically even, but the ones he usually sees stay there for a long, long time, set out to die at a specific moment. And in this moment that he’s reading about, it just happened to be these two people. The universe was apparently fed up. Decided it was time for her to go. Decided it was time to look down, speed across, ignore the honking horn and red light, decided that it was also time for the truck driver to go in that split moment of time.

He wonders if that’s just how the universe works.

And he wonders this as he looks up from his reading, across the table at A, who is studying with such fervor that it almost seems unnatural. He wonders what makes him look up from the paper at this moment, what makes him lean over to grab the steaming hot cup of coffee, what makes him take the loudest sip possible just to annoy the fuck out of A.

Well, whatever made him do it worked, as A looks up, looking exhausted and vexed as to just why he had to do that. B smirks. A rolls his eyes.

“I’m trying to take notes, you know.” A’s voice is hoarse from the lack of talking.

B folds the paper mechanically. “Sorry.”

They both know B isn’t sorry.

A shifts so he’s sitting up straight in his chair. The light coming from overhead hits his face at just the appropriate angle, the one where B can see every little facet that contributes to his weariness. He can see the glazed over eyes, the slight twitch of his upper lip, the bags, ever so visible, practically black at this point. The poor boy looks so tired, and for a moment B actually _does_ feel sorry for interrupting him.

The feeling doesn’t last long.

“You should probably get some sleep.”  B suggests.

A glances away from him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re going to die from sleep deprivation.”

(He can’t tell if he’s joking or if it’s a genuine prediction.)

“You’re going to die of a caffeine overdose.” Is A’s reply.

_Touché._

There’s a silence between them. B takes it to look at the numbers, which are the same as ever, and A looks sad for a minute. Well, he looks an assortment of emotions-sad, stressed, _tired_ , angry, but content at a second’s thought.

“Seriously, you should go to bed. It’s not healthy.”

A laughs. “Since when have we ever had time for our own health? And since when do you care?”

“Since…right now.” He decides.

“Yeah. Okay. It’s nearly ten at night and you’re drinking a cup of coffee.”

Which is a fair point.

“What’re you studying anyway?” B asks. He reaches for his cup again, ignoring A’s last remark.

“Nihilism.”

That’s not what they’re studying in class. “Why?”

A rubs at his eyes. “I don’t really know. Personal interest?”

B shrugs. “Heavy material for so late.”

“I guess.” He runs a hand through his hair, which looks as though it hasn’t been washed in a few days. “I’m really tired.”

“I said go to bed. I mean if you have no real work to do now then might as well rest.”

A nods and starts to collect his belongings. He closes the book he was reading and a very worn notebook, gathering his pens and stuffing it all into a distressed looking book bag. He finally yawns as he stands up, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“Eventually. I was going to finish this. Need the extra kick.”

A shrugs in response. “See you later then,” and he begins walking towards the doorway, hesitating at the frame for a split second before walking out and around to the staircase.

iii.

It’s almost appropriate for Beyond to contemplate the meaning of life after his discussion with A.

The idea of nihilism-particularly existential nihilism-has always intrigued him. It doesn’t strike him as negative, and he isn’t offended by it like everyone else. To everyone else, life means something. It’s simply hard for him to believe that humans are needed on this planet when all they’ve done is interrupted the environment and, on a universal level, are nothing compared to the complex function of expansion. Humanity has grown far and wide within the Earth, developing things that only actually exist based on their understandings, but it does nothing for the universe. In the largest perspective possible, humans are nothing.

Which backs up the cynical point that really, his life isn’t worth anything. It’s not worth money or science or, hell, it wouldn’t really make a difference to the universe whether or not he was dead. He can accomplish all he wants, and while it makes a difference to this world, to people and their emotions, it wouldn’t make a difference to the vastness of the nullity he and everyone else lives in.

Humans are the only species known to have the ability to imagine; only humans can think of things that aren’t really there. It’s how, as a species, they’ve been able to evolve, how they’ve been able to come up with science and technology and math, even, numbers and languages and _time._ Languages are just noises that signify meaning, technology seemingly random variations of numbers that mean something to another man-made machine, science being used as a _mean_ to explain the previously unexplained.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it-everything has to have a meaning or an explanation, and everything is _why._

So, why is it that he is alive? Why has nature created him, his body, his mind that spins like wheels in his head? The little boy that always looks scared out of his wits would tell him that it’s because of God, and he’s set him out on a path to get to an achievement, and the world will eventually need him, which B thinks is a load of bullshit. He’s one person. He has the power to make an impact on humans, and he knows that he can do it, but _what does it mean_? What does it mean to the universe?

Nothing, absolutely nothing in the long run. It doesn’t mean anything to him, and he doesn’t get why it would mean anything to anyone else; so why is it that he is alive, when he can easily choose not to go forth with actions of any kind?

He’s back to square one.

If he can’t know _why_ , there’s always room for _what_ , which he finds to be just as complicated of a matter.

He finds it hard to ponder-why and what, in this situation, are so closely associated with one another that it’s hard to differentiate the two.

 _Why_ is life; _what_ is life.

He doesn’t know the answer to either of them, and it’s frustrating beyond belief.

If life is meaningless, then it means that everything people have constructed-society, conspiracies, government, morals-is also meaningless, and B finds some of it true.

There’s no need for set standards when it comes to people, and conspiracies go with the fact that only humans can imagine. Government? He can understand the need. Otherwise there would be a lot of strain between individuals. Morals? Without them, there would be utter chaos. Morals are important, he’s always known that. But some part of him, like a whisper, wants him to think that humans only find things to do to fill the gap of nothingness of life, living by these just to occupy themselves. Another, almost sickening part tugs at him in the back of his mind, _if life is meaningless, and everything humans have created means nothing, then morals are just artificial standards to keep everything we know going to shit._

He can’t bring himself, no-he doesn’t _want_ to bring himself to think about that, because it justifies murder and crime and everything he’s being trained against. It means that the killing of a person is neither right nor wrong, when clearly it is _wrong_ , but if humans are nothing to the universe and death to the universe is meaningless and one person _dying_ is meaningless then it doesn’t necessarily mean that _it’s right_ or _wrong,_ it’s just _in between,_ it doesn’t mean _anything-_

“Are you okay?”

B looks around the room for the source of the voice. It’s A. He’s sitting on his bed with _Macbeth_ split open, the spine standing up to hold his place, the same worn notebook next to it.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” B says. He’s sitting on his own bed with his own copy of the play laid out in front of him. He is nearly finished with the book, perhaps five pages left. He doesn’t know the significance of reading it. He assumes it’s only an example to analyze the complexities of people, but at this point, this is child’s play, and this work is simple; a pleasurable read at best.

“You’ve been staring out your window for ten minutes.” A states, and looks out his own window. It’s raining. B isn’t surprised.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About?” He wants elaboration. B folds the corner of the page.

“Macbeth.”

“Just Macbeth,” A says, in a slow and unbelieving tone.

“Well,” B takes a moment, leaning against the wall, “Macbeth’s character, actually.” A convincing lie. “Antagonist or protagonist?”

“Antihero.”

“Clarification?”

A smirks. _Game on._ “Macbeth is very ambitious, enough so that he brings it to the point of murder to reach his goals. He can’t live in comfort knowing that he’s killed people to reach his goal and is psychologically unprepared to deal with it. But he never quite sees it to kill himself like all of Shakespeare’s other villains-rather, when it comes full circle, he pulls out this bravado in front of the English soldiers when beforehand he was an absolute mess. By the end, it was a game-he was fighting and winning in the beginning, dying like a self-proclaimed martyr in the end.”

B nods, “And by antihero…”

“He is the protagonist that does questionable, no-morally wrong doings.” A finishes.

“But after he realizes he’s wrong, he thinks it’s pointless.”

A looks slightly confused. “What do you mean?”

“Shakespeare displays the perfect view of a nihilist through Macbeth at that point.” B picks up his book again, flipping to the page he needs. “‘ _Out, out, brief candle! / Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player / That struts and frets his hour upon the stage / And then is heard no more; it is a tale / Told by an idiot, of sound and fury, / Signifying nothing.’_  First we consider he’s in the middle of a soliloquy about his absolute disgust for his life and for what he’s done. Second, these lines demonstrate the current view of his life, that it is meaningless, or rather, that the existence of such life doesn’t quite mean anything.”

“Why would Shakespeare include that if Macbeth was so determined take the throne?” A inquires.

“Think about it,” B says, “Self-doubt. Awareness. Tempted so easily, ready to do anything for his aspirations. It’s supposed to symbolize how this inner turmoil he’s been suffering through the entire play has brought him to his knees, and that murder wasn’t ever the answer. Had he not tried, though, and a warrior could never inherit the position of being a king. At that point, it was a lose-lose situation, and no matter what he wouldn’t make it. Being so ambitious, and aware of himself, he saw his fault, and began to speculate the meaning of his actions.”

“It’s possible that Shakespeare was implying these views, but I think only a true nihilist could read into such a passage like that. Taken out of context it can be read-”

“-Just the same as within context of the soliloquy.” B cuts him off. A’s mouth is left ajar for a moment, but he quickly closes it and jots a few notes down in the notebook beside him, as if to end the conversation; a look of defeat washes over his once amused attributes.

_I win._

iv.

B has always known that death is inevitable.

It’s natural. It’s normal. It happens everywhere, every day, and not just to living organisms. It happens to the stars above in planetary nebulas and supernovas, it happens to the comets that burn up in the atmosphere of the Earth, it happens to a pen when the ink runs out, finally drained from its chamber and rendered useless to anyone unless the cartridge is replaced.

A’s dead body is of no use to anyone. Perhaps, when decomposition is allowed, bacteria and fungus and insects will absolutely feast on it. If it were ditched in the wild, then it may have been used as a food source for animals, and still disturbingly enough as an item of unspeakable things. But aside from those rare and extreme cases, the human body is nothing, and it cannot be replaced. The physical form will eventually start to swell, the stopped blood will pool in the position the limbs are left in, and the warmth once produced by homeostasis will make the skin cold and tight as rigor mortis takes over. It will begin to rot from the inside out, just as anything else does, as it was meant to do. Again, it was inevitable for this to happen, and he doesn’t understand the emotions that come along with mourning.

The human body, at a funeral, holds a lot of emotional value. Personal value. People cry at the sight of it, for it, because once that body was thriving with _life_ , because of how that brain developed a personality, because that brain is now unable to go on. Cell production has stopped in every which way, there are no more thoughts, and all B can think of is nothingness that can be seen by the blind eyes of the dead; a vacuum, perhaps, is what he can imagine takes the space of the once active brain.

So if life doesn’t mean anything-if a person is of no value-and this was meant to happen, then why does B feel so crushed? So upset and sad and angry?

A is gone. A has experienced death, taking his own life with his own hands. B found him hanging from the ceiling, his face deep blue from asphyxiation, swaying slightly from the breeze coming in through the unlatched windows. B didn’t know what to do-whether to scream or cry or whether to take him down, to check if he were truly dead or still slowly suffocating. He didn’t need to check, though, he could see that the numbers over A’s head were gone, and so was his name, vanished, and B had never seen the aftermath of a death; he knew that A was dead-

And he felt numb. Numb because he knew that eventually A would be dead. Numb because he felt as though the world was lying to him; numb because the day before A was a mess, and he wasn’t eating, hadn’t been eating, he’d started crying halfway through their physics lesson after lunch and B had to comfort him-and it was then that he finally got to see A up close, he was skinnier and gaunt and absolutely _exhausted_ to the point where he was falling behind, he couldn’t focus on the lessons, and B had thought something was wrong and there was absolutely _nothing_ to prevent this from happening, nothing that he could do. It happened as too much of a shock. A’s numbers hadn’t changed. Not in the slightest, he was supposed to live so long, so, _so_ long, and he doesn’t understand why he wasn’t able to see the change in this supernatural way. Shouldn’t they have told him the truth? Shouldn’t they have said when he was supposed to die properly?

And there’s that tricky word again, _fate;_ A wasn’t fated to die this way. Is that it?

B had slammed the door shut because God forbid anyone see him like that. God forbid anyone see A hanging by his neck from the ceiling, and he ran, ran down the hallway and nearly fell down the stairs and the other kids were staring at him because why, why was B running like that, why did B look so scared, Roger was going to yell at him, but he skidded to a halt in Roger’s office and slammed that door shut too-

“A is dead.”

Roger raised an eyebrow at him, almost alarmed. “Excuse me?”

B had taken a shuddered breath there, and there was a tightness and burning in his chest as he croaked, “A is dead,” those dreaded words; a lump in his throat he hadn’t known was there started to make its moving up through his airway, and his face was suddenly wet, he was crouching on the ground while notes of anguish left his mouth and he _didn’t know why_ he was crying or why he’s crying now or why Roger had to place those awkward arms around him in an attempt to comfort him.

The funeral has just finished. The priest has wrapped up his funeral rites. It didn’t matter if A was religious or not-it was done. Students are leaving the cemetery grounds, crying, or leaving decently saddened, and it’s only B left standing at the top of the hill. He doesn’t know why he’s still standing at the coffin, which is closed and glossy and wooden and wet with raindrops. Maybe they’re tears, he doesn’t quite know. He can’t think at this point. Everything has been a blur the past few days, and he is numb and sad and everything hurts.

It’s hard.

This is the most human B has ever felt, and it betrays the fact that this doesn’t _mean_ anything. It _shouldn’t_ mean anything. A’s death means nothing to the universe, and A is gone at his own influence, and who knows where A is now, if he’s in an afterlife of any sort of it he’s simply gone; and yet, A’s death means something to Beyond. He doesn’t want to believe that he had to die, he doesn’t want to think of A going to a heaven or a hell or anywhere in between. He is angry at A, for thinking the way he did, but it makes him feel selfish for putting the blame on A, because it wasn’t him that drove him to the point of ending it all.

He’s weeping openly, god he’s so weak, he shouldn’t be like this right now. He wants to kick at the ground and scream like a child. He’s _grieving._ And he doesn’t understand why, but he thinks A deserved just a little more time, he wishes L would’ve chosen, he wishes so many things at this moment-that this didn’t mean anything and that he wasn’t feeling because it just hurts like hell. Because A was his friend, and A cannot be so easily replaced as an ink cartridge in a pen. Because A’s mind was not useless and had so much more to accomplish.

B thinks that maybe the universe isn’t meant to be understood.

v.

Beyond wonders, as he sits on the curb by a mostly empty gas station smoking a cigarette, just who he’s become in the past few months.

A lot of things have changed. For one, he’s in Los Angeles, hot and smoggy, as opposed to the wet and cold of Winchester, England. Two, he’s gone from completely comfortable furnishings to sleeping under an itchy blanket in a rundown motel. He’s worn the same pair of jeans nearly every day since he got here, and he hasn’t bothered to wash any of his clothes. Not that it matters to him. He can’t find the time to care about anything anymore.

He had tried really hard to be okay. He had tried really hard to adjust to the absence of A’s presence, but it wasn’t working. His bedroom felt too empty and spacious, the house itself was quieter, he didn’t realize just how much the simple state of his being meant _comfort_ to him. It didn’t matter that for once people felt sorry for him-he didn’t want the pity from the little boy that always played on his Gameboy. Pity was and is something he would rather not receive, because it shouldn’t matter that they feel sorry. It shouldn’t matter that now he gets the attention, and what really made him go over was now he had L’s attention, even for the slightest of moments; the moment he had L’s attention, the moment he said _I’m sorry_ over a fucking _computer,_ B was done, because all A had wanted was attention from this guy, this fucking coward who couldn’t even see them in person-

B takes a deep breath on his cigarette, inhaling as much of the smoke as possible. It caresses his lungs and tickles his airway, the taste of nicotine settling on his tongue.

He doesn’t care about A anymore. He’s dead, and that’s that. He can’t bring him back, and there’s no point in wallowing in sadness and grief when there’s absolutely nothing he can do. And it’s a little strange, when he puts it into the perspective of the cars passing by him, and the occasional person walking down the road, that all their lives remain unchanged by the death of A. At the end of the day, A’s death means absolutely nothing.

A new emotion has recently arisen within him. Anger. It manifests in ways that he has a hard time keeping control of, like flipping the small table in the motel room and tearing up the skin on the back of his hands and smoking until there’s not a single cigarette left in the box. It’s stupid of him to do things like these because it doesn’t make him feel better afterwards. It makes him feel even _worse._ And he wonders just when he let these useless emotions take so much control over him, more specifically, _why_ he’s so agitated all the time. Anger is one of the five stages of grief, maybe that’s the reason for it (he thinks for a split second), but he’s no longer grieving. He’s no longer mourning. So if it isn’t A, then it must be L, and that’s the spot, his grip on the stick of tobacco tightens, his teeth grit against each other…

Beyond thinks he’s an absolute asshole. Beyond thinks now that it wasn’t A that caused A’s death, but L, and he hopes the bastard feels awful about it. He wants L to feel like it was he that killed him, physically killed him, because that’s exactly what he did. A couldn’t handle the pressure, couldn’t handle the work that was given to him, he couldn’t handle even _thinking_ of the future position. The position of L, if he were to die. They were just replacements. They shouldn’t have been fucking replacements. What if L had died, and A had taken the position? What if A had died? They would’ve just expected B to step in then, to replace A, but he can’t be replaced, not so easily. A had more emotions. A wasn’t a robot. A _understood._ L couldn’t be bothered to understand.

God, he’s back to that again. Emotions, he thinks, are going to kill him. He takes another drag from his cigarette.

L doesn’t have anyone to take his place now. It’s quite bemusing, since he knows that L will probably try again to find the closest ones to his own mind. It’s a stupid concept.

It’s all Beyond had to live for.

It isn’t fair. If life was supposed to be so grand, then why did it just give him that? L wouldn’t have died before thirty, at least, he doesn’t think so. It would only leave Beyond to wait and wait and wait for his time to come, but more likely A would be chosen before him out of slight favoritism. And wouldn’t that be boring, just waiting around? So fuck it, he left Wammy’s after a few months of trying to cope, after a few months of more waiting and even a few more after his eighteenth birthday and even a year after that on the streets just waiting for something to happen, He spent over a year waiting and waiting and now, he thinks, fuck it. If life is meant for him to do something, then he’s going to do something that people will remember for a long time.

If he can’t have an impact on the universe, he can at least impact humanity. Besides, it doesn’t mean anything anyway. He can still be as good as L, as smart as L, on his own. He’s thought of getting a job, but that’s too dull. He doesn’t want to sit day after day doing work that isn’t up to par with his own intelligence. If it doesn’t mean anything, and he’s supposed to do something, he’ll try and break L in the only way he can think of.

Beyond never thought he’d end up here. Sitting on the street, his cigarette nearly out, thinking about murder. Murder, of all things, and not in the way he used to think of it before. He used to sit and contemplate and solve cases, but now he’s sitting and contemplating and creating cases. Cases that L wouldn’t be able to solve. Crimes are wrong, they’re supposed to be wrong, but they aren’t right either, it wouldn’t matter if a few people died for the sake of something to do. If that’s what life is supposed to be for him, then he might as well fulfill it.

“ _Disculpe?”_

A voice. A stranger. Beyond looks up from the stub of his cigarette to see an older man talking to him, nervous looking.

 _“Qué deseas?”_ His tone is cold. He has no reason to be nice to the man.

“Uh, _yo necescito ir a…”_ He stops. Obviously Spanish isn’t his first language. Beyond feels slightly offended.

“I speak perfectly good English.” Beyond’s voice is cold, and his English-like accent seems to confuse the older man. He reads his name, _Believe Bridesmaid-_ how peculiar that they share the same initials. He’s going to die soon, he calculates. _Isn’t that a shame._

“Oh! I’m sorry. I just-”

“Need directions?” He attempts to take a final breath off the stub, but there’s practically nothing of it. He rubs what’s left of it on the cooling pavement and reaches into his pocket to find the pack.

The man, Believe, starts to fiddle with the rings on his hands a bit. He’s trying to act smooth, but the actions and stumbling speech is taking that effect away. “Yes. I’m not familiar with this district, could you tell me how to…?”

“I’m not from around here. Sorry.” Beyond lights the fresh cigarette. It’s sort of a lie, mostly so, but he wouldn’t be able to remember where the house he grew up in is from where he’s sitting. He wouldn’t even be able to remember the area. All he knows now is he’s in west L.A., by some shitty stores and not so good neighborhoods.

“Figured by your accent. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

He starts to walk away. Beyond doesn’t feel bad. Not a bit.

vi.

The skill of deceiving is one he’s picked up in a most artful way.

He starts by observing the people around him. He watches them with a careful eye, picking apart every little attribute, the motions that evince their feelings, what may be considered unnatural in what he’s seen. It’s easy to watch, especially in a little but cramped café. People are walking in and out with somewhere to go, coming here for a brief stop in their journey. For others, this is where the trip took them, thus their sitting down and leisurely enjoying their time here. 

Beyond watches in a state of openness, his body displays a façade of casualty. It’s different from the persona he’s been in for a few days now. On the opposite side of where he’s staying, he sits in the café, sure that Naomi Misora won’t walk in to see someone resembling Rue Ryuzaki drinking coffee in the corner. Eccentricities are what he’s looking for. Rue Ryuzaki is a very strange man, and Beyond needs to crank up the notch on him a little bit. Misora seems weirded out by him already, _boy does his back hurt from laying under that bed for four hours,_ but Rue Ryuzaki needs more improvement. So here he is, a killer in perfectly plain sight, watching movements of people to get a sense on what he can add to Ryuzaki’s character.

It’s strange that if he’s caught (which he absolutely _won’t,_ he’s sure about it), he’ll be called a killer. A serial killer, to be more specific. According to ethics, he is a killer, taking the lives of those who weren’t “ready” to die. They had so much more to live for, their families would say, the public thinks, but they don’t understand. When Beyond approached those people, searched them, stared at their faces and read their names, he knew-in some nauseating way-that there was no getting around this. These people were going to die on the dates that _he_ had planned on committing his crimes, regardless of whether they were ready.

The crimes themselves require an immense amount of involvement, as crimes do. He’s only ever worked on the opposite side, figuring out the puzzle rather than creating it. Sending the criminal away rather than becoming the criminal. This side is nearly as interesting as the one he’s worked with before, but he’s not quite sure he was cut out or _destined_ by any means for this side. He’s doing a good job, he assumes-the police department doesn’t have a single suspect, or any sufficient evidence, but he isn’t exactly enjoying these crimes. They don’t fulfill any needs or desires he has, only sate his curiosity with anatomy and experimentation, excuses as to not be bored; means to justify his end-result, to _prove_ that he’s better than L and that he _can_ outwit him.

So, was he meant to kill them?

It’s a question left for him to ponder on. Had he not planned on doing these murders, would these people still have died? Did his arrival in Los Angeles influence the date to change, or did he simply decide to take advantage of the dates and coincidental names? His thoughts, his actions-did they influence the universe? Or did the universe influence him to do this, _destined_ him to think like this all along?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know._ God, does it frustrate him too, because he’s spent too much time questioning the damn universe and just wanting to know reasons. The least the universe could do is give him a simple hint, because that force he’s wondered about for years seems to be controlling him just as it did all that time ago, just in a more brutal fashion. He’s learned to stay so open-minded ever since the unexpected death of A, and he can’t trust what he sees anymore. He can’t trust what he used to know.

God, he _doesn’t_ know.

A woman in the corner is on the phone laughing. She’s very free with her movements, and despite there not being anyone in front of her, she talks with gestures and hands. He can hear her struggle to find words for things she’s describing with her hands. This trait is too common. His eyes flick to the man sitting behind her, who looks quite old-his skin is wrinkled and his eyes appear kind and wise, and he looks out the window drinking a cup of tea. It seems he is also observing. He bounces his leg up and down-perhaps he’s meeting someone, or trying to keep himself attentive, for he’s awfully calm in his nature. Beyond takes a sip of his coffee and shifts his head to look on the opposite side.

_A killer in plain sight._

How strange that is. He’s spent his time doing things he shouldn’t have, per what morals state. He did it on his own accord, to one-up L, and he’s doing a damn good job of it. So he thinks, anyway. His evidence is purposeful. His signature; there isn’t any. He smiles at it, because he knows L is working on the case, he _knows_ Naomi Misora is working for him, and he _knows_ that _L_ knows B is the one doing it. He just doesn’t have anything to prove it with.

And he won’t have anything to prove it with.

 He’s already decided that. He’s also decided that he’s going to die in a few days. How odd to it is to think of it so casually-he’s going to die, going to be gone in a blaze of heat and energy. Fire will be painful, very painful, but it’s the only way to upkeep what he’s going for. He doesn’t want L to be right. He doesn’t want L to see any part remaining of him. If that were the case, he could easily slice open his veins, or force sleeping pills down his throat, but he doesn’t want to be _seen_. He doesn’t want to be suspected with a face, and the media can’t do that if he doesn’t have a face. Fire will suffice for the chore at hand.

_Will it be time?_

_What if I fail?_

He doesn’t have time to think about that. Beyond takes another swig of whatever is left in the cup, grounds swirling in a bitter black mass at the bottom. _Focus_ , he chides himself, _you aren’t here for downtime._ His eyes start to scan the room again-a father and two children sit at a table close to the counter. The father is too fixated on keeping the younger one sitting down that he doesn’t notice the older one, dropping cubes of sugar into his tea like there’s no tomorrow. The child must love sweets, and B thinks he’s intelligent to take advantage of the situation. He looks so focused on putting as many as he possibly can in there-Beyond has counted seven, eight, nine, ten from the time he started watching, and for a moment their eyes lock; a brief exchange, _don’t tell my dad,_ a nod in reply, the child smiles and goes back to his sly shenanigans. The naivety of the child is all too enticing, so _human_ , and he knows that the child will get in trouble for putting that amount of sugar in his tea.

Rue Ryuzaki can act just as naïve. He’s practically a child anyway, and this mannerism is something he can hone in on in the next two days. It doesn’t require that much skill-perhaps masking the overwhelming sweetness of the drink so it doesn’t show through his body language, but that’s about it.

The bell to the front door rings, and two cops walk into the café. Their presence simply won’t do, and abandoning the cup atop a pile of magazines, he slides out of the closing door.

vii.

Beyond Birthday is scared.

This is one of the only times he’s felt like this before. His gloved hands shake just the slightest, his pulse pounding against the skin of his neck. He’s been waiting all too patiently, taking in the air around him, knowing it’ll be gone soon. The time on the stove-the time that doesn’t exist-ticks away as slow as it possibly can. It’s been hours since he arrived in the apartment, and hours that he’s had this planned.

It isn’t that he’s scared of death. He’s scared of dying.

Death is inevitable. He accepted this long ago. He knows that eventually he, too, will rot into nothing but frail bone, and other organisms will take the place of his body. If he were to die naturally, that is. By the time he’s finished, there won’t be any bone left of him-not a single hair, not a piece of flesh, not even the beating muscle of his heart. He will vanish into the nothingness that may exist, perhaps scarring the mind and nose of Misora, or Bluesharp Babysplit, maybe even the cops. Whoever walks into this room first will find his smoldering body and smell the disgusting fumes of his burning insides.

But he’s scared of dying. He hates to admit it. He hates how he can accept such a normal, eventual thing, but not for himself. He wants to die, he _wants_ to die, he wants to win whatever game this is between him and L and he can only achieve that if he dies. The pain will be enough to knock him out within the first five minutes, hopefully, and then he can just lie there, unconscious, and wait until that stupid light or dark or whatever it is finally takes him, but _god,_ what’s after? It will have been worth his death, otherwise he wouldn’t be in this position, and he’ll be so satisfied; he’s afraid.

Afraid because he doesn’t know if there’s a heaven or a hell. He knows for damn sure if there is a heaven, he isn’t going there. He’ll continue to burn in the fiery pits of hell, or maybe he’ll be sent to purgatory, or maybe he will simply cease to exist. Will he see God? Any god? Does he even have a soul worthy enough to be judged? Then again, who is God to judge man for his crimes? That’s what laws are for; he’s broken so many since he arrived in L.A., his entire existence is a broken law.

Beyond Birthday is scared.

What if he can’t do it?

No, he will do it. He can do it. He _must_ do it. He’s already dismantled the fire alarms and smoke detectors in the room. He’s already replaced the lock on the bedroom door, ready to be turned, and he has the canister of gasoline and a box of matches hidden in the back of the closet in a box under some blankets. He has the power to do it. He has the power to end his life, or try to, because at this point he doesn’t know how lifespans work anymore and everything is such a _mess-_

_Breathe._

The shaking of his hand has intensified. He takes a seat on the couch, wary of any fibers potentially getting caught in the woven fabric of the cushions. The makeup he’s wearing is starting to make his skin itch.

What if he doesn’t die?

He can’t see his own lifespan, so he doesn’t know when he’s supposed to die. He assumes it’s just how the eyes work, but it’s shitty now, because he just _has_ to know. He _should_ know if this is his time. Thinking about it is probably making it not so. It’s one of the only things, aside from the universe and religion and _time_ that is confusing him into a point that he just needs to fucking do it to find out, but this anxiety that’s speeding through the roads of his veins and roaring up into his brain that’s stopping him from doing it.

A died. A died long before he was meant to. His lifespan didn’t change. Would his? Would he be able to die with the same causes as A? He’s had this set in his head for months. For months, he’s thought of wanting to die. Is that long enough of an influence? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know and he won’t know until he just _does_ it, and he starts to stand up from the couch and stalks into the bedroom, knowing that he has no choice at this point. He’s come too far to let it all go to waste. He’s going to die and he will succeed and the universe with all its control and _fate_ is leading him to this, but it could also lead to a devastating end; not the one where he dies, the one where he isn’t _done_ dying, and he’ll be put out and dragged to a hospital and maybe thrown into prison for arson because he’s left no evidence for the murders, and L has nothing to prove that he did it.

He smiles at that.

Beyond Birthday twists the doorknob. Waiting isn’t an option anymore. Waiting had become procrastination. He’s going to do it now, face whatever comes next, because it doesn’t matter. He’s _won._ He’s won the game, and he’s going to go out knowing this, and L will know it too. L will know it was him that was working with Misora. L will know he lit himself on fire, shrunk into the flames, and he won’t be able to do anything. And if a bone is left behind? It’s not like it can be used for anything. He can’t be arrested if he’s dead.

Beyond steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him, locking the thumb twist lock. The Wara Ningyo hangs on the opposite wall as he enters, and he walks to the closet. His frame continues to shake with anxiety and excitement- he’s about to win. He digs into the tote with the blankets, finding the red barrel of fuel, finding the box of matches, he’s so ridiculously close to finally being gone it’s almost relieving.

A voice in the back of his head continues to question him. What will happen if he does fail?

He can’t do anything then. He shakes his head. Closes the closet door and listens to the sounds of the ticking clock on the wall, _tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock,_ he feels as though this is the moment he’s been waiting for, for so, _so_ long, even though it’s not been that long at all. He unscrews the cap on the canister, the pungent smell of petrol flooding the room.

He pours the can of gasoline over his head. This isn’t for A. This isn’t for L. This is only for himself.

(The mephitic scent weighs his clothes down like lead weights; the pale yellow color embeds itself between the filaments of his shirt.)

There’s no turning back. There’s no turning back.

Beyond Birthday, with both all the care and none in the world, strikes a single match.

 

**Author's Note:**

> translations of what beyond says in part 5:  
> Qué deseas-what do you want?  
> Estás pero si bien pendejo-you're a fucking idiot  
> Escupirlo-spit it out  
> A dónde vas-where are you going?  
> El museo no está por aquí-the museum isn't around (here)


End file.
